


blood red

by kalypsobean



Category: Little Red Riding Hood - All Media Types
Genre: Bloodplay, Bondage, Crueltide, F/M, Rape, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 09:06:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2845544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalypsobean/pseuds/kalypsobean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone thinks the Huntsman got there in time. He wasn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	blood red

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reserve](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reserve/gifts).



> Happy holidays to reserve! I hope you enjoy your gift.

She is so perfect, so beautiful; she skips along the path like the fact that it is even ground, pebbles packed down and worn from the feet of years of travellers before her, means it is safe to play in the woods, his woods. She sings nonsense words as she swings her little handbasket, so innocent, so young.

Her hair is hidden under a hood of red, but her skin is not, clear porcelain white just begging to be marked. It would split so easily, he knows, under his claws, and she would cry so prettily.

 

~&~

 

"All the better to eat you with, my dear," he says, and she screams. She is not fast enough; he leaps from her grandmother's bed and snatches at her cloak, though it tears in his grasp. No matter; the next thing he gets is her arm, and though her skin tears easily enough, the bone doesn't, and he keeps hold of her as he turns her away from the door and locks it. He kicks a chair in front of it for good measure, though she won't be trying to get out any time soon. 

 

She is crying as he throws her down onto the bed, as he slices away her cape, her hood, her dress. His claws brush against her skin but he's careful not to cut; that comes later, for now he wants to see her flinch just from the thought of it, the possibility. He wants to see what he's getting, what he can do with it, whether it's like what he imagined.

It's not; under all those clothes she's thin, and he can see her collarbone and ribs moving under her skin as she breathes in deep ragged breaths, coughing as she chokes on her tears. It is a pleasant surprise, that she has the beginnings of curves and that she reacts so prettily, so readily. And she doesn't fight; she pulls away, she almost involuntarily twists away each time he touches her, but she doesn't try to hit him or get away or even protest.

He drags his paw over her last item of clothing, between her legs and up to her tummy, and all she does is shiver, her tears wetting her grandmother's pillow.

 

He could play with her like this for hours, just touching her and watching her react, watching her cry, but it wouldn't be enough.

Not nearly, not at all.

He didn't go to all this trouble just to scare her.

 

He keeps touching her, her skin soft and pliable under his paw, but he presses down, now, so his claws leave red marks across her tummy and across her breasts, just barely rounding from her chest. He marks her down her sides and her legs, and finally, she shields her face.

"There you are," he says, softly, his nose next to her ear. He catches her wrists and wraps them in a strip he's torn from her grandmother's sheets. "So you want to play? Let's play."

He pulls her hands above her head and ties them to the canopy, conveniently framed in solid oak. Her body follows, and she kicks at him as she's pulled upright, just stretched out enough that she can't rest on her knees.

"None of that," he says, and slaps her breasts. He catches her behind the knee the next time she kicks, and slides his paws down to her ankle. Her skin is so smooth under his paw pads, and he's gentle so he can savour the feel of it; he presses his nose and then his cheek to her calf as he ties a knot around her ankle and then a knot to the post; she has room to move, to keep struggling, if she will, but she won't be kicking him again, not when he's done on the other side.

 

When she's stretched out, curved just enough for shadows to form over her back, he takes a step back, and another. She's exhausting herself quickly, as if she saved everything for this one burst, but she can't rip through the bindings and she falls pliant again soon enough, lax. 

Her skin is moist now too, sweat making the passage of his paws nearly frictionless; he strokes her back and down over her bottom, waiting for her to twitch, but she is still.

So easily broken, she bows her head and hisses softly as he parts the skin on her back. It splits as easily as he had thought it would, and her blood is as red as the hood that lies discarded on the floor. It runs down and stains her panties, and really, he's left them long enough; he drags his claws from her shoulderblades to her thighs, and her panties fall away.

She starts to cry, then; it had stopped, and she had kept her eyes closed, but now he can walk around and face her, look into her eyes as she sniffles and her chest heaves. Every time she moves, now, one of his marks reopens, and he makes new ones for each time she takes a breath and lets out another wail.

"I'll stop if you do," he says, knowing she can't help it; she doesn't have the strength to control herself, or fight him again. And she keeps crying, and she screams when he carves deep lines to mark where her bones stand out under her skin like a map to where he wants to take her.

He runs the back of his paw between her breasts and over her tummy, collecting just a bit of blood in his fur; he licks it away before he reaches down and touches her. It doesn't take long, because she's so close; she twists in an entirely new way, and her head tilts back, easy enough for him to take the air from her mouth as she gasps, easy enough for her eyes to close and her body go still.

"I knew you'd be perfect for this," he tells her. "As soon as I saw you, I knew."

Her skin is so pale now, clammy and stained, but pale underneath, perfect like snow. It's still so soft under his paws, but not so smooth, not now he's marked her and torn her apart.

 

There's a sound outside and his ears prick up, footsteps. He touches his nose to hers and, before anyone can find him there, he's gone, and so is her hood.


End file.
